The Other Side
by APHPhilippines
Summary: With sudden confidence and power, the second players devise a plan to get the first player countries to their knees. What better way to do that than to hit them where it hurts the most? In a blur of survival and deception, old friends are reunited to battle old enemies, and a deep trust for another will be broken by fate.
1. Introduction and Disclaimers

_Every one of them took their time with their loved ones for granted. Now, I'm here to take all of it from them, taking back what was mine from the start._

**I do not, in any way, own Axis Powers Hetalia. It is owned by the great Hidekaz Himaruya. I am merely creating another fan fiction among many others.**

**I also do not own the fanmade 2P Hetalia. Although fanmade, the rights are still owned by their original creators. Again, i am merely creating a fan fiction of them.**

**I, however, do hold claim of the storyline and plot. This idea came to me in a dream, so I technically own the idea. Please do not copy it, stating that this is your work. Like many other authors, I have worked hard for this, and I'm asking you to please respect that.**

**The shippings used in this book is not based on love. I merely connected their relationships and formed it to fit the plot, so you may see a FrUK and a FraNada at the same time.**

**You may also see some gramatically incorrect statements. This is because of two main reasons. It's either I'm on my phone and it's being a bitch, or because my main language is actually not English, but Filipino. Terribly sorry for any disturbing mistakes.**

**The main warnings will be**_ lots of cursing_** and **_suggestive phrases_**.**

**Thank you for reading. I hope you will enjoy!**


	2. Prologue

**Francois Bonnefoy || 2P!France**

**Allen F. Jones || 2P!America**

**Matthieu Williams || 2P!Canada**

**Oliver Kirkland || 2P!England**

* * *

A crisp white envelope rested in his pale hands, a maniacal grin on his freckled face. With delicate precision, he hooked his finger in an open space between the flap and the main body, running the said finger under it until he felt the glued edge give way. He lifted the flap and stared at the lone paper resting inside its home. His bright blue eyes excitedly watched his hands take out the paper and open it, the words inside containing everything that he still needed. Information, the ones he was missing, was all there in the simple white paper.

"Very good, poppet~" he called cheerfully, his gaze leaving the thin substance and connecting with the intense gaze of the American in front of him. The latter rolled his eyes, scoffing lightly and averting his blood-red orbs from the hypnotizing stare of the Englishman. "Don't call me poppet Oliver. You know how much I hate that..." he reminded for the umpteenth time. The cheerful man just giggled in delight, ignoring the brunette's protest of his nickname.

"Besides..." the American continued, "...it wasn't that hard. It's just their relationships. It wasn't as hard as getting them in one place..." he explained, and the blonde nodded, leaving the piece of paper on the desk. With a bounce in his steps, he skipped over to the other guy and enveloped him in a warm, bone-crashing hug. "Thank you Allen, this is just what I needed!" the man named Oliver gratefully exclaimed, once again ignoring the American's embarrassment of his actions.

"Get the fuck off me, Oliver!" the man named Allen exclaimed, successfully pushing away the latter, who gazed at him angrily. He raised an eyebrow until he realized: he had swore in his presence again.

"Swear jar. Now!" Oliver exclaimed, and Allen stood up, grumbling and dropping a few coins in the almost-full jar. When he looked back, Oliver was back to his cheerful self. "We must call for Francois and Matthieu, yes we must!" he was chanting over and over again as he took out a black phone and dialed someone.

A few minutes passed, and after a few fights and shouting, the Frenchman and the Canadian arrived. Francois was in his usual state, an uninterested look plastered on his face, as well as a cigarette in between his pale lips. His dull purple eyes locked with Oliver's bright blue ones before he was tackled down in a hug. He sighed and boredly tried to push the excited cupcake-loving man off him.

"Darlin'! Did you miss me, huh?" Oliver cooed, nuzzling his cheek on Francois', not minding the smoke from his cigarette. The Frenchman ignored his question and successfully pried the Englishman off him.

Oliver pouted and made a move to hug Matthieu, but the latter raised his hockey stick, the end matted with what obviously looked like dried blood. Matthieu took off his sunglasses and perched it on top of his messy blonde hair, his slightly brighter purple eyes glaring down at Oliver.

"Don't you even think about it, you freak..." he mumbled, but the Englishman ignored his warning, and when he was busy stopping him, he had already been enveloped in one of his 'loving' hugs.

"I'm sure you missed me, poppet~" Oliver cooed, and Matthieu groaned loudly, squirming out of his grip.

"Dammit Oliver! I told you not to-" Matthieu started but was interrupted, again.

"SWEAR JAR!" Oliver shrieked dangerously, one hand gripping his precious butcher knife tightly and another pointing at the coin-filled jar. Allen shot his brother a smirk, and Matthieu glared at him, dropping a few more into the jar.

This was a usual chaos whenever the former family meets again after too long. However, that was only in Oliver's point-of-view. The last meeting they had was just a few hours ago, but for Oliver, it was still too long ago. He missed the days when they all lived together under the same roof, even though it always burned down every night. Literally.

Soon, they have settled down enough for everyone to be seated and listen to Oliver. The latter was more excited and cheerful than normal, and that would only mean that something evil that he had devised is coming into plan. Matthieu's eyes wandered over to his American brother, who stared right back.

"You know something about this, don't you?" he asked casually, which was surprising because most of their conversations involved insults.

Allen got over his shock and shot Matthieu a knowing smirk.

"Trust me bro, you'll love this~" he said mysteriously, earning him an eye-roll from his Canadian brother.

"Damned cocky bastard..." the latter grumbled under his breath. Unfortunately, this did not go unheard by Oliver and he shrieked again, glaring at Matthieu and pointing at the swear jar. Matthieu was forced to drop a few more coins in the swear jar.

As soon as he sat back down, Oliver stood up and grinned at them all, his hands on his hips.

"Listen up boys, for we're about to rule the world~"

* * *

**So, what did you think of it? Review, please! 3**

**Thank you!**


	3. Chapter I: Painting Flowers

**If nothing is true, what more can I do?**  
**I am still painting flowers for you...**

* * *

Curse those crystal blue orbs.

They always reminded him of his childhood sweetheart, the one who had kissed him and then left for war. He had told him, promised him that he'll be back for him, but until now, he still haven't. Was it all a lie? If so, then does that mean that he had waited for nothing?

"Stop it Feliciano... You're bringing back memories you've sworn to forget. Just go on with your life. He's never coming back and you know it. Forget about him already..." he whispered to himself, trying to calm his ragged breathing and racing heart down.

_But, how can I when I keep seeing him?_

Shaking, the brunette brought the covers closer to his barely clothed body, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around it. He buried his face into his knees and let the tears flow. He trembled, trying to keep his sobs muffled. Ludwig was in the other room, and though he wanted someone's comfort right now, he didn't really want to bother anyone.

Soon, Feliciano forced his ragged breathing to even out, and he choked back sobs that was trying to be let out. He needed to stay strong, and he didn't want the others to think of him like a crybaby. Oh who was he kidding? They always think of him like that. This thought brought a new wave of emotions to slam into his already fast-beating heart. No. He must not think of such things.

Forcing his limbs to move, he stood up and stretched, his eyes wandering over to the clock perched above the doorway. It's arms told him that it was still early, approximately 2:30 in the morning, but Feliciano was already awake. He wasn't going to sleep any time soon, and he knew it. So instead, he quietly slipped out of the room and into the living room, where his easel was. On it was a large square canvas, with a half-done sketch of a flower garden.

Shaking his head, the Italian made his way to the kitchen, his throat feeling very dry and uncomfortable. He opened the fridge and pulled out a pitcher filled to the brim with cold water, and very eagerly poured some of it in a clear glass. Wasting no time, he brought the glass to his lips and greedily gulped the water down. In his haste, he underestimated the things that the dark room was hiding, and he brought his hand down pretty hard on the counter. He felt a sharp pain on his pointer finger and he yelped, putting down the empty glass and opened the lights.

Tsk. His finger was bleeding, and it looked like he had accidentally brought it down on a kitchen knife. Tears filling his eyes again, he attempted to wipe it on his shirt, but it only managed to turn some parts of it from white to red, and he sighed again, bringing the finger to his lips and sucking on it. The metallic taste and scent of blood dulled his senses, and he grimaced before removing the finger and inspecting it. It was still bleeding, but not as heavily as before. He walked back to the living room, sitting down in front of the easle and deciding to finish it. His wound was left unbandaged, simply because he didn't know where the first aid kit was, and had always relied on Ludwig to bandage him. Pathetic.

He sighed again and picked a pencil up, almost immediately going to work. His dream kept the ideas coming, and he added small details here and there, until he came to the point where he drew in two children facing each other. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped and tears blurred his vision once again. Gritting his teeth, he blinked them away and continued until he finished the sketch. Satisfied, he leaned back and smiled. It was perfect.

He now picked up his brush and palette, squirting paint in a variety of colors on it before he sat up straight and let his imagination flow. He had the dream about 25 minutes ago, but the picture was as vivid as a memory. Maybe it was. His hand flew across the canvas in perfect pressure and precision, adding shadows and shadings when necessary. The painting seemed to gain some life as his hand danced across the surface, mixing colors and varying them.

Soon, the flowers in the garden had been colored, the sky glowed a peaceful blue, and the sun seemingly shone on the painting. All that's left now is the two children facing each other. Smiling fondly, he dipped his brush in black paint and began coloring in the robes of the child on the right, his strokes magical.

This continued on, until the whole painting had been finished. Picking up a pencil, he signed his signature on the bottom right corner, along with the date. He then stood up and wiped sweat off his forehead, slightly painting it a reddish color from his hands. He then stepped back and smiled satisfied.

The picture was of a simple flower garden, with two children facing each other. The two children was all too familiar to him, for the one on the left side was none other than himself. His usual mint-green dress fluttered in a fictional breeze, along with the petals of the flowers clutched in his hands, and the tears in his eyes. The other one was that of his first love, his black robe fluttering in the fictional breeze also, and a sad smile grazing his young face.

Overcome with emotion, Feliciano plopped down on the couch and lied down, his eyes swimming with tears. One lone tear dropped as he closed them, and before the darkness overtook him, a voice was heard.

_"I promise..."_


End file.
